


Gravity Centered

by carpemermaid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angry Kissing, Banter, Blow Jobs, Broom Racer Draco Malfoy, Broom Racer Harry Potter, Competition, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Flying, Glove Kink, H/D Fan Fair 2019, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, POV Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Professional Broom Racing, Racing, Rivalry, Romance, Secondary Theme: Travel Fair, Secret Relationship, Sharing a Wand, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2020-10-06 07:13:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20502965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpemermaid/pseuds/carpemermaid
Summary: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are two of the best flyers in the International Professional Broom Racing League. To fans, they’re a pair of competitive rivals that trade skillful wins back and forth, but after they finish each grueling race around the world is that all there is between them? Or:Harry tastes the wind on Malfoy’s tongue.





	Gravity Centered

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[149](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/161779.html?thread=5192691#t5192691) with Secondary Theme: Travel.
> 
> Thanks to Buildyourwalls, Aibidil, and Gingertodgers for cheering me on and helping me polish this up!

_Durmitor Range Rising Grand Prix - Montenegro_

Wind whips Harry’s goggles as he banks left and rushes his broom up and over a tree growing sideways from a craggy mountainside ledge. The racer beside him doesn’t expect the tree and crashes right into it with a muffled yelp and a burst of yellow smoke to signal his status to his ground team. Harry sets his lips in a grim line and zips higher through the mountain pass, urging his broom forward as he navigates the race’s treacherous and challenging path.

There are two other racers on the bristles of his tail, as hungry for the thrill of the win as Harry. One of them is Malfoy, his sleek designer broomstick never far behind or ahead of Harry in these races. Harry barrel rolls at the last minute to avoid a boulder formation and grins when he hears the posh bitten-off curse over the rush of wind in his ears.

Malfoy doesn’t have time to respond, probably too busy pulling a manoeuvre to avoid crashing. The other racer pulls ahead of Harry when he gives in to peek over his shoulder. She’s wearing Japan’s colours, her broom emitting white and red sparks as she navigates the race course.

Harry scans the uneven ground as they crest the top of the mountain pass, the landscape opening in front of him. Race officials allow the racers to see a map of the area ahead of time with the planned racetrack, but Harry usually relies on his instincts to guide him to the best route. He only keeps the Navigator Charm in his arm brace because of league regulations and he wouldn’t want to be completely fucked if there was a bad crash in the wilderness. These races are dangerous—lives have been lost. The stakes are high and the turnover rate on racers is higher.

It’s been three years since Harry started racing in the International Professional Broom Racing League. He loves it. Lives for the exhilaration that comes from whisking through the varied race landscapes, the world travel and wizarding cultures he’s exposed to, the camaraderie and rivalry between racers.

As far as Harry knows, Malfoy started up shortly after he did. Harry first raced against him in Alaska in the magical community’s equivalent of the Iditarod dogsled race for flyers. They both fly for England, though they’re not on a team together. They’re lauded as the best professional broom racers in England’s league. Harry doesn’t care about that.

Racers who register with the league can race as individuals under their own banner, as Harry and Malfoy do, or join a national team, as Viktor Krum and Gwenog Jones do when there’s a race during the Quidditch offseason.

There are other reasons to race professionally—fame (Harry’s had plenty and doesn’t need more, thanks), fortune (Harry doesn’t do it for the money), bragging rights (that’s Malfoy’s arena, when he wins). Harry’s happy to see the world and do something he loves that makes his heart race. He feels alive when he flies.

Harry adjusts his grip on the broom handle and braces his heels against the stirrups, pushing into a dive. Malfoy creeps into his peripheral vision. Harry catches the edge of his smirk. Malfoy drifts closer, near enough their elbows could brush and knock both of them off course at high velocity. Harry dips sharper and Malfoy follows, then Harry spirals back up and around a copse of pine trees, his feet skimming the spindly tree tops.

“Stay still so I can win, Potter!” Malfoy shouts.

Harry grins. “But then how will _I_ win, Malfoy?”

Urging his broom on, Harry catches up with the racer from Japan who surpassed him before. Up ahead, she misses the large bear rustling around on the ground and has to brake hard to avoid it with a wide berth. Harry and Malfoy fly past her, practically side by side with their broomstick noses as they round the final bend to the slope that leads to the finish line at the forest edge.

This is what they do. They compete neck and neck, trading wins and barbs back and forth. Alaska, Thailand, Kenya, New Zealand—they’ve been in races together all over the world.

The wind picks up and snow begins to fall. By Harry’s memory, they have about twenty minutes of flying before they reach the finish line. He’s glad for the charms inlaid into the threads of his all-weather aerodynamic uniform, because he knows from experience it’s hell to get his wand from the leather holster strapped to his thigh. He did once, before he gave in and agreed to the sponsorship deal with Gladrags in partnership with Broomstix to outfit England’s racers. It took fiddling with the holster during a monsoon—he’d been trying to get his wand out to cast a Water Repelling Spell only to lose his wand, the slick wood slipping through his fumbling grip into the swamp he was barreling through—before Harry understood why all-weather charmed flywear was a valuable investment.

Ten minutes later, the snow picks up. Malfoy’s letting loose a stream of annoyed curses. Harry’s laughter is swept away by a gust of wind and he tastes chilly snowflakes on his tongue.

“Not built for the cold?” Harry yells.

Malfoy bumps into Harry with his sharp shoulder, not hard enough to knock him off course. Harry gets him back, taking one hand off his handle to pinch Malfoy in the one spot he knows his uniform is light on padding. Malfoy grunts and coasts out of reach.

“You’re such a fucking child.” Harry thinks Malfoy might not have meant it for his ears, since he has to strain to understand what he says.

“Pot, kettle,” Harry calls back, whooping as he drives his broom forward. “I’ll keep the finish line tidy for your arrival!”

“Potter!”

Malfoy’s words get drowned out by the first din of the finish line crowd, a gathering of thrill seekers and well-wishers. Harry’s excited to get there. Ron and Hermione have come to watch the race before they take a second Portkey to Athens.

The tree line comes into view. Harry and Malfoy slow down to weave through the trees where the race path isn’t cleared so they don’t crash into the obstacles. It gives Malfoy enough edge to catch up on the distance he lost when Harry shot ahead. Past the trees at the edge of the forest, there’s a field to cross and then the stadium blooms in the center, brightly coloured and packed with fans waving different flags and banners of individual flyers. Once the announcer points them out on the enchanted screens honed in on each racer’s location with specialised tracking spells, the crowd’s energy explodes into cheers.

The screens are charmed to cycle through an overhead view of the race, the current leaders, and closeups of racers. As they approach the first stand, Harry can make out a blown up image of himself and Malfoy as they fight for the lead. The snow abruptly stops once they cross into the stadium, the Weather Charms keeping the atmosphere comfortable for the fans.

Harry tucks his shoulders tighter and leans over his broomstick for a burst of speed; Malfoy does the same, form excellent from what Harry can tell in his peripheral vision.

“It’s racers Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy coming in for the finish, both individually registered under England’s flag.” The announcer’s voice booms throughout the stadium. “Who will it be? It’s going to be a close one!”

Harry grits his teeth. The dangers of the race have dropped away, and it’s down to pure skill and breakneck speeds to finish. The race can be anyone’s once the racers hit the final stretch, the lead position not guaranteed victory. He puts as much of his magical energy as he can into his broom’s acceleration, zooming high over the track below, flashing gold with charmed arrows leading to the glowing finish line. A spell will magically record whoever crosses first, but the race officials also review Muggle footage after a spell-tampering scandal a couple of years ago.

Everything’s a blur in Harry’s ears, a cacophony of screaming fans, the rush of wind from the speed of his flying, the announcer’s narration. It hits a crescendo as Harry’s broom is first to cross the finish line; the spell erupts into a dazzling fireworks charm, one special ordered through Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes for events.

“There you have it, folks, your first racers across the line in the Durmitor Range Rising Grand Prix!” the announcer says in an echoing, _Sonorus_-enhanced voice. “Here come our next hopefuls for the top ten. It looks like Sato Ayumi flying for Japan is first in the pack, followed by Miguel Costa of Brazil and Evie Taylor of Australia.”

Harry slows and lifts the front of his broom into a celebratory loop that has the fans in the stand nearest him squealing, flailing their banners. Quite a few are Harry’s, a red and gold phoenix charmed to spread its wings with burning tail feathers. Harry spots a few of Malfoy’s flag, as well, a silvery fox that scurries across the flag, spelling his name with its shimmering tail. Harry is secretly a fan of the clever spellwork in the design. Malfoy directs his broomstick to circle Harry after his loop, finishing with a flourished twisting spiral and Harry resists reaching out to grab his sleek bristles to tug him back from showing off.

“Nice race,” Harry says after they wave to the crowd and land in the racer’s circle at the end of the stadium track.

“Noticed how much you had to put into pushing that beat-up Firebolt of yours at the end there,” Malfoy says, focused on removing his flying gloves. “Losing your touch a bit.”

“Still won this one, didn’t I?” Harry removes his goggles, letting them dangle around his neck. His Vision Charm loses crisp focus for a moment before settling without the goggles on. He unclasps the braces on his forearms, tucking them into his back pocket and pushes up the sleeves of his striped jumper. “Loser buys drinks.”

Malfoy scoffs. “Can’t afford your own? Is that because you give all of your winnings away?”

“Ha, ha,” Harry deadpans, waving lazily with his fingers. “Harry Potter, no money. Come on, that one’s got old and we both know it’s not remotely true. Go for something new and thrilling.”

Malfoy’s grey gaze flashes. He squares off with Harry, halting Harry’s path to the refreshments laid out for the racers who finish. “I’m winning the next one.”

The competition sparks fire in Harry’s blood. He itches to race again, even though they’ve just finished a long one. “Alright, good. Then drinks will be on me.”

Malfoy smirks and pours two waters, handing one off to Harry. Sato from Japan enters the racer’s area, her black bob shaking free when she removes her helmet.

“Harry!” Ron and Hermione wave from the entrance.

A warm joy blossoms, filling Harry to the brim, and he jogs over to join his friends. He tucks them both beneath his arms, stretching to reach Ron’s shoulders, and leads them into the racer area. They sandwich him with a hug.

“Brilliant race, mate,” Ron says, pride colouring his tone.

“Well done, Harry,” Hermione adds. “I’m glad we were able to see your race before our connection at the Portkey Office in Zabljak.”

“You lot didn’t have to,” Harry says, ears going hot. He rubs Hermione’s back. “You already delayed your honeymoon once.”

Hermione waves him off. “The Portkey isn’t until early this evening. We even have time to see some sights.”

“Where’s the next race in the series?” Ron asks.

“Dubai,” Malfoy says. He exchanges polite nods with Harry’s friends, then addresses Harry. “They’re ready to call it.”

“Right. See you after, guys.” Harry drops a quick kiss to Hermione’s cheek and then a playful one for Ron when he pouts and points at his freckled face.

“Charming,” Malfoy mutters beside him as they walk to the podium magically unfolding at the finish line.

“What, you want a kiss, too?” Harry puckers his lips and slings an arm over Malfoy’s shoulder to drag him closer. Malfoy struggles, jabbing Harry in the side with his pointy elbow. “Just have to ask, Malfoy. Happy to oblige the second-place racer with my adoring affections.”

“Get off me, you—ugh—_Potter_! You arse!” 

Harry manages to plant a sloppy kiss on Malfoy’s ear and barks out a laugh. 

Malfoy wipes at his lobe, lip curled. “You are impossible.”

They step onto the podium for the top three after the race official finishes coaxing the platform into place like a conductor with her wand. Harry, Malfoy, and Sato Ayumi step onto their respective places as the final results are announced—Harry in first place, Malfoy in second, and Sato taking third. The winner’s ceremony doesn’t take long; Harry tunes most of it out.

Later, after dinner with Ron and Hermione before their Portkey, Harry locates the hotel bar. The racers are put up in an upscale place for wizarding elite, fashioned after high-end Muggle hotel chains. Harry would be more comfortable in a local pub, but it’s getting late and he doesn’t want to get sozzled and risk Splinching himself when he’s unfamiliar with the city.

Malfoy’s seated at the bar, a fresh Firewhisky in front of him. He’s pared down from the over-the-top flying uniform, hair loose and damp from a shower and wearing a soft-looking navy jumper with dark jeans. Harry takes a seat next to him and signals the server for a drink.

“Firewhisky,” Harry requests. He leans an elbow on the bar and glances around. The bar is dimly lit and styled to look like an American speakeasy, with leather booths and Art Deco era fixtures charmed to give off a soothing glow. “I think I prefer the Leaky Cauldron.”

Malfoy hums and toasts Harry with his lifted glass before taking a sip when Harry’s drink arrives. “It won’t kill you to stay somewhere with prestige behind the name. It’s part of winning, so be quiet and drink your Firewhisky. If you get maudlin about it all, I’m going to bed before you sour my mood.”

Harry chuckles and slides his crystal cut tumbler over the lacquered bar top to clink their glasses together. “Another good race. Thought you had me in the first leg over the frozen lake.”

“You pulled through. You always do,” Malfoy murmurs against the lip of his glass.

Harry lives for the race, but he quite likes this part, too. Enjoys the contrast to their interactions when they’re not fighting for first place.

There’s only one other person in the bar besides them, a wizard in a star-spangled nightgown in a corner booth. An older Celestina Warbeck song warbles from a gramophone sitting at the end of the bar. Harry fiddles with his glass, turning it back and forth between his hands.

“Which will you do this time?” Harry asks.

Malfoy tilts a curious glance his way, pale brow arched. Harry knows he’s playing coy. It’s part of their post-race ritual.

The first time they had raced against each other, Harry had run into Malfoy in the hotel lobby. Malfoy had finished first and Harry, if he’d won, had planned to donate his winnings, since others needed the money more than Harry did. Annoyed by Malfoy holding court in the lobby when Harry was trying to check in, Harry grabbed him by the collar and hauled him behind a decorative indoor shrubbery, intending to demand what Malfoy was even doing in the league. Malfoy had wrestled Harry’s grip off him and made a snide comment about league regulations amongst racers. When Harry remarked about Malfoy needlessly lining his Gringotts coffers, Malfoy’s face closed off in a cold mask and his voice was like ice as he corrected Harry, informing him, “Not that it’s _any_ of your fucking business, Potter, but I happen to be donating the majority of my race winnings to the Hogwarts Education Outreach Support Fund.”

Harry had released Malfoy and reared back a step, then another. It was the charity Harry had planned to donate to. Malfoy had grabbed Harry’s wrist and dragged him from the hotel. After finding a hole in the wall pub around the corner, Malfoy went to sit at a table at the back and barked an order for a pint at Harry, who dazedly bought a round of drinks. That was the start of their post-race routine.

“I was thinking the Patronus United Foundation this time,” Harry offers his own choice for a charity, adjusting his glasses as casually as he can manage.

“Oh?” Malfoy hums in consideration, tapping his chin with a crooked finger. “That one will do nicely.”

Malfoy doesn’t know it’s actually Harry’s charity to assist orphans affected by the war. He had it set it up to act as a private benefactor. Most of his income from the races funds that charity.

Harry hides a secretive smile behind a final sip of his drink and raises a finger to get the server’s attention. “Pint of Carling, please.”

“Sorry, sir,” the server says. “We don’t carry that here. Can I suggest Fabrika Bocca instead? It’s local and the hotel keeps it under preservation charms for guests during winter months.”

“Oh, yeah.” Harry scratches his neck sheepishly. “That’s good, then.”

“Live a little, Potter,” Malfoy says, raising his tumbler in another toast. Harry’s distracted momentarily, drawn to Malfoy’s relaxed state, focus moving down Malfoy’s neck. “Get outside of your comfort zone.”

“I think between the two of us, you can’t say I’m not the adventurous one,” Harry shoots back with a lopsided smirk.

Malfoy pulls a face, conceding the point. “I suppose we can’t, can we?”

Their knees brush and Harry meets Malfoy’s mercurial gaze.

*******

_Federal City Classic - Switzerland_

>   
_ **THE DAILY PROPHET** _  
_British Pro Broom Racers Potter and Malfoy Fight for First in Swiss Race_
> 
> Saturday—The Federal City Classic stands bustle with overflowing energy outside the Swiss capital city. The Daily Prophet is on the scene, surrounded by fans of the professional broom sport. Many fans weigh in on the fraught tensions that strain the English league flyers, namely Potter and Malfoy. Today’s race is no different, after an exciting back-and-forth battle for the win, Malfoy flies in first across the finish line to the sound of roaring cheers. Potter finishes in second place, barely a full broomlength behind Malfoy.
> 
> One fan in the stands speculates on the way they see Potter and Malfoy trading competitive ribbing that turns into friendly smiles once they enter the private arena for racers who have completed the course. Talk of their rivalry has driven ticket sales and news reports for the last year. Potter and Malfoy declined to comment when the Daily Prophet spoke to them after the closing ceremony. The pair were seen leaving the public area of the stadium together, standing quite close. This reporter saw it clear as day—their hands brushed when Potter leaned in to speak in Malfoy's ear, unaware they had an audience while they stood much nearer than competitive rivals or friends might. On the outside it seems their rivalry continues to thrive, but is that really the nature of the relationship between racers Malfoy and Potter when they’re away from the racecourse?
> 
> The series for the flying World Cup continues next month in New Delhi.  


Harry tosses the newspaper onto the table and Malfoy clucks his tongue in annoyance when it spreads across their table in a mess of sections.

“My coffee, Potter,” Malfoy chides, moving it out of the way.

“Papers are at it again.” Harry rescues his own coffee from beneath the Quidditch section. Harry quotes from the article, “_On the outside it seems their rivalry continues to thrive, but is that really the nature of the relationship between racers Malfoy and Potter when they’re away from the racecourse?_”

“Well, you should’ve guessed they’d print something about you. It is a day that ends in ‘y’, after all,” Malfoy says absently as he brushes pastry flakes from his fingers. 

They’re in a cosy cafe tucked away on a side street in Geneva, spending a few days in Switzerland after the race near Berne. The Portkey office had closed due to inclement weather, affecting the transportation of the Swiss Ministry of Magic, and Harry wasn’t about to make a multi-jump journey to Apparate back to London. Malfoy seemed to be of the same opinion, though he did suggest they could go Muggle style and take a train.

The tip of Harry’s boot nudges alongside Malfoy’s foot beneath the table. Harry steals Malfoy’s pastry and takes a bite, making a pleased sound and licking his lips. He catches Malfoy peeking at him through his lashes, gaze darting out the window while he sips his coffee once he’s caught.

“If you wanted your own, I’d have ordered you one.” Malfoy moves his pastry farther away from Harry’s reach and slides his foot closer to Harry’s beneath the table.

“But yours tastes so much better.” Harry smirks, sucking flakey crumbs from his thumb. Harry’s lips twitch when he draws Malfoy’s attention. “Actually—could you?”

Harry’s pants at the translation spell and his sparse French vocabulary is abysmal compared to Malfoy’s refined fluency. Malfoy goes to the counter, his lilting accent drifting over to Harry as he orders more pastries. After a quick exchange, Malfoy returns with an assortment of Swiss desserts on a plate that he offers to Harry, their hands brushing.

Warmth expands in Harry’s chest as they share the treats.

They spend another hour in the cafe, loosely discussing plans for after the race in India. They don’t always see each other past their post-race drinks, but when the races are somewhere neither of them have been—which is all of them, for Harry—they occasionally set aside time to explore the area. When the door opens and a gust of chilly air blows by their table, Malfoy tucks his feet between Harry’s to warm up.

Harry can’t take another cup of coffee, or he’ll start to feel jittery. Still, he lingers. Harry pretends to be interested in the paper once more as Malfoy takes an age to finish his coffee.

“I’m going to walk around the city. I hear there’s a collection of runic scrolls on display at a bookshop in the wizarding quarter,” Malfoy says after subtly setting a charm to muffle his voice so only Harry can hear it in the bubble of magic momentarily surrounding them. He tucks his wand into his sleeve.

Harry blinks, hesitantly reading Malfoy’s body language, trying to pick apart the meaning behind his causal statement. Some of Malfoy’s habits die hard, no matter how much he’s changed. He still can’t say what he means to save his sorry arse.

“Shall I…come with you?” Harry ventures.

Malfoy lifts a brow. “Are you inviting yourself?”

“Do you mind?”

Malfoy pretends to mull it over, tapping one long finger on the table as he stares Harry down. After several moments, he sighs. The corner of his mouth lifts up after a beat. “I suppose your company isn’t the worst I could do. Come on, I’ll show you where my mother took me for chocolates in Rue de Côté by the river. It’s like Diagon Alley.”

*******

_El Caminito del Rey Gorge Run - Spain_

The glowing finish line spell erupts into fireworks and they finish one and two—though Harry can’t tell which—after a difficult race. They land hard; Harry’s knees creak in protest. The cheers in the stands are a dull roar in Harry’s ears, but his gaze is locked on Malfoy.

Harry leaves his broom with a ground attendant and Malfoy scrambles after him, a fierce expression on his blotchy face.

“—completely reckless and an unfounded reason to even _utilise_ that manoeuvre, and—are you listening to me, Potter?” Malfoy rants as they stride away from the racer’s area and the stands into the underbelly of the magical structure, weaving through restricted access hallways closed to the public.

Harry grabs Malfoy’s arm and ducks into a door where the brooms are sent for emergency repair, a wooden workbench covered in gilded stirrups. The room is empty. Harry slams Malfoy against the door and covers his mouth in a searing kiss, muffling the rest of Malfoy’s tirade about what Harry should and shouldn’t do in a race.

Malfoy fights him, biting his lip, clawing at his clothes, dragging Harry closer until they’re practically fused together from shoulders to hips. Malfoy opens his mouth and swipes his tongue against Harry’s, letting loose a vicious sound that makes the blood in Harry’s veins sing.

“If I hadn’t done it you’d be dead, you cantankerous prick,” Harry spits, lips brushing Malfoy’s in the hair’s breadth of space he allows between them to argue his point.

Malfoy glares back at him, poised to punch him or give another angry kiss that’s likely to make Harry bleed. Malfoy touches his tongue to a spot on his lower lip that’s a bit swollen and red.

“Oh, big words,” Malfoy says, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.

“I’m not apologising for saving your sorry arse,” Harry presses, closing the distance between them once more.

There’s less urgency in the second kiss, but the fire burns bright and hot. Harry breaks away, panting, pressing their foreheads together. Malfoy allows it, kissing him back. His clawed grip gives way to wandering explorations, re-mapping Harry’s body.

The adrenaline is still fresh in Harry’s veins and the distant echo of the finish line crowd reaches the dusty tack room. Harry tastes the wind on Malfoy’s tongue.

“You’re the biggest arsehole I know,” Malfoy mutters when the second kiss ends, his hands fisted in Harry’s striped jumper.

“Likewise, Malfoy.” Harry releases him to yank off his flying gloves.

Malfoy helps, reaching for Harry’s goggles, the Vision Charm going wonky and blurring at the edges. They fling aside pieces of their uniforms in a rush to get to bare skin. Malfoy leaves one glove on and that gets Harry hotter, dick throbbing when the soft leather glides down his side where his jumper has rucked up.

Harry gets frustrated and whips his wand from his thigh holster and with a quick slash, the lacings on Malfoy’s trousers spring free.

“No patience or finesse, Potter.”

Malfoy’s posh accent drives Harry up the wall and he takes great pleasure in occupying him with another deep kiss. Malfoy melts against the door where Harry pins him, sagging as Harry sucks on his tongue. Harry fumbles his wand back into place and gets both of their trousers wriggled down their hips and takes out his erection, doing the same with Malfoy’s. He wastes no time with teasing, stroking Malfoy’s cock. Malfoy rips away from the kiss and sucks in a breath through his teeth.

Harry’s struck by Malfoy like this: windswept, face flushed, lips parted, gaze half-lidded and dark with desire. He wants to take his time, take Malfoy apart until he’s lit up inside and out from Harry’s touch. But they don’t have time—they have here and now.

Malfoy grips Harry with his gloved hand and Harry bites his lip, picturing the leather covered in his come. Malfoy smirks and Harry thinks Malfoy might guess where Harry’s mind has gone.

“You’re so easy.” A breathy laugh huffs out of Malfoy. “It’s all over your face.”

“Fuck off,” Harry mutters, eyes fluttering closed.

“Make me, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes snap open. He’s met with a challenging look edged in lust. One side of Harry’s mouth ticks up in a crooked grin.

“Game on, then.” Harry pins Malfoy with a look and focuses on the shift in Malfoy’s expression shift when Harry casts a wandless lubrication conjuring spell. Malfoy gasps and Harry adjusts his slick grip, gliding over Malfoy’s erection. Never one to be left behind, Malfoy grabs for Harry’s wand—his own across the room—and conjures more with a second spell, ruining the supple leather of his glove with conjured oil. Harry tips his head back and moans as Malfoy strokes his prick. “Fuck, like that.”

They stroke each other, quick and dirty. There’s dust tickling Harry’s nose. They both freeze for a beat when there’s muffled footsteps outside the door. Harry’s stomach lurches with the worry that the tack room attendant has returned. Then Malfoy twists his slippery grip and Harry’s lost again, pulse a steady thump in his neck.

Harry’s nerve endings light up with electric pleasure. He’s getting close.

“Ah—Harry,” Malfoy murmurs. Harry speeds his strokes, swiping his thumb across the sensitive head. Malfoy’s grip tightens. “Nearly there. More.”

Harry puts his lips to Malfoy’s ear. “Are you going to come first, Draco? I want to see it.”

“Oh—fucking hell,” Malfoy gasps, arching away from the door. His hand stutters over Harry’s cock for a moment, the oil-soaked leather making Harry’s toes curl in his boots.

“Let go,” Harry urges.

Malfoy pushes out a shaky breath before coming in a hot spurt on Harry’s hand. He licks his lips and gives Harry a slow, filthy kiss that’s over before Harry’s ready. Malfoy slides down the door, landing with a muffled thud on one bent knee. He spares a heated glance for Harry before he parts his lips and sucks Harry’s cock.

“_Oh_.” Harry scrabbles, one hand braced on the door and the other cupping the back of Malfoy’s head.

Harry doesn’t last more than a minute, already teetering on the edge of orgasm—the wet warmth of Malfoy’s mouth is all it takes to lure him over. He tightens his grip in Malfoy’s hair, but pulls back until only the tip sits between Malfoy’s lips so he won’t choke. Malfoy grabs Harry’s hips with two hands, one slick with oil, and peers up at Harry through his lashes with a fierce gaze as he swallows.

Harry lightly traces the side of Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy touches the back of Harry’s hand, brushing over his knuckles. He releases Harry and the only sound in the room is their laboured breaths, the adrenaline finally fading.

The announcer’s _Sonorus_-enhanced voice rings through the room, stretching across the whole stadium and restricted access points to call the winners to the podium. They both jump and scramble to put themselves to rights before facing the crowd.

Harry’s still not sure which of them took first place.

*******

_Lakeland International World Cup - England_

The landscape in the Lake District is familiar, though the course is new. Harry’s grin stretches, the sun beaming on his face as he shoots across a lake in a valley between rolling hills. This race will decide the World Cup of professional broom racing.

Harry intends to win.

England hosts the final race of the series, and in addition to Harry and the other English league flyers, Brazil, Japan, Canada, Australia, and South Africa have teams and individual flyers in the race.

The race started early in the morning, shortly after the sun swept over the hills. Malfoy’s broom bristles zigzag in front of him, keeping Harry from overtaking the lead. They’re near the end now, one more lake to cross before they reach the stadium structure. No matter which of them wins, the cup will be England’s.

“Malfoy, what d’you say to popping down for a picnic?” Harry goads.

The only response is Malfoy lifting two fingers at him, flipping him off with the rude gesture before he arcs into a dive. Harry follows with a loud whoop that carries. The earthy-damp scent of the bogs fills Harry’s senses as they weave up and down, close to moss-covered rocks and the shore of the lake. The other racers are far behind them, their lead great enough that Harry doesn’t have to work as hard to barrel towards the finish line. He’s enjoying this final race in the series.

“Look.” Malfoy gestures with a jerk of his chin to their left.

A flock of starlings takes to the sky, creating patterns in their flight as they whip back and forth. Harry exchanges a glance with Malfoy and Malfoy grants him a rueful smile.

“This once.” Malfoy moves before Harry registers it, cutting into his flight path.

They soar through the center of the starling flock, laughing as the starlings create a hole, encircling them in a ring of birds in flight.

“Let’s finish this.” Tightening his grip on the broom handle, Harry speeds back up to a clipped pace.

“You’re on, Potter,” Malfoy shouts.

They trade the lead back and forth a few times. When they cross the finish line and set off the fireworks, they’re even with each other. They land and share amused looks.

“Did we just…?” Harry props his goggles on his head, ruffling his hair.

“I think we did.” A curious expression settles on Malfoy’s face.

“Racers, this way,” an official says, herding them to a special platform for the final race in the series.

The final racer crosses the finish line. It’s not long before they call first place after the review—Harry and Malfoy tied for first, setting a new league precedent. The excitement in the stands increases as it’s announced.

Bright laughter rolls out of Harry and he wraps an arm around Malfoy’s shoulders, waving at the crowd. Two of the top flyers in the league, tied for first. Malfoy joins in with Harry’s laughter.

The flying World Cup will return home to England for the third year in a row since Harry began flying for the league.

“Really thought I had you this time,” Malfoy says.

“Technically, we have each other this time,” Harry points out, running fingers through his hair once more.

“Celebratory drinks before the closing ceremony banquet?” Malfoy suggests as they exit the podium, arms still slung around each other.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees with a grin. “You buying?”

“You are,” Malfoy corrects.

“Fine, first round. Next one’s on you. We tied for first,” Harry reminds him.

“Very well.” Malfoy steers them to the locker room inside the facility.

The joyous cacophony of the celebrating crowd falls away.

*******

Harry’s groggy when he comes out of a nap. His duvet has bunched up around him and the temperature regulation charms gave out at some point, blanketing the room in muggy summer humidity. Harry groans; he hates resetting them and Grimmauld’s too stubborn to allow Harry to use any Muggle means. Cranky old house.

A weight wrapped across his stomach leaves a damp trail of sweat when Harry shifts to shove the duvet down.

“_Mrph_,” Draco grunts, half awake. He adjusts so his face isn’t half-crammed against Harry’s arm, moving to lay his cheek on Harry’s bare chest. Draco skims his fingers in a meandering dance across Harry’s stomach, teasing lower for a second round.

“Too hot for that,” Harry complains, rolling to his side so he can kiss Draco lazily, reaching down to grab Draco’s arse.

“Wouldn’t be—” _Kiss._ “—if you’d ever—” Teeth scrape over Harry’s lip, a dark laugh rumbles deep in Draco’s throat when Harry shudders. “—remember to check the charm.” Draco speaks in a smoky tone against Harry’s lips between kisses.

Harry loves him like this, even more than when he’s racing Harry on a broom. He hums, pressing forward to rut his half-hard cock against Draco’s, shivering in pleasure both from the friction and the air prickling across his sweaty skin without the duvet to cover their bare bodies.

Draco chuckles and manoeuvres Harry onto his back, straddling him to stretch across the bed, where his wand rests beside Harry’s on the bedside table, next to Harry’s glasses and a pocket watch that belongs to Draco. He grabs for whichever wand is within reach—Harry’s—and resets the spell. Harry sighs in relief as a refreshing coolness trickles over the sheets, wicking away his discomfort. Harry slides his hands up Draco’s thighs, tracing the slight muscle honed from years of professional flying, and squeezes Draco’s hips.

“What time is it?” Harry asks, loosely circling Draco’s cock with his fingers. He strokes him to full hardness, enjoying the flush that spreads over Draco’s pale chest.

“Half four,” Draco gasps and arches into Harry’s touch, bracing one hand on Harry’s thigh for balance.

Harry’s arse is loose from the first round. He wants to fuck Draco long and slow until he has Draco grasping at the headboard, but there’s barely enough time for this. He swipes his thumb through the slit. “Think we can be quick?”

They have plans with Ron and Hermione for dinner at five. Only their closest friends and family know that they’ve been living together, in a relationship for the last year and a half. Draco loves egging Harry on in public and they have a running bet on who will slip up first and land them in the papers when the journalists follow the story of the heated tension between them.

A smile curls the corners of Draco’s lips and he spreads his other palm over Harry’s chest.

“If we make it on time, you have to blow me after the race in Shanghai, no matter who takes first,” Draco says, covering Harry’s body and sucking a mark into Harry’s neck.

“Ah, fuck,” Harry breathes, tipping his head back and wrapping his arms around Draco as they rock their cocks together. “Was planning on that, anyway.”

“What do you wager when we’re late, then?” Draco’s lips move against Harry’s skin.

“_When_ we’re late—no confidence.” Harry’s losing his grasp on communication, as he does when Draco’s clever tongue tortures the sensitive spot below his ear.

A drawn-out, raspy groan escapes Harry. He’s not actually complaining. He doesn’t give a fuck if they’re late if it means five more minutes of this.

“Just—just—” Harry loses his train of thought and flips Draco over, getting him back by kissing him deep and taking their cocks together in his hand.

Draco bucks beneath him. Harry adjusts his grip when Draco’s hand joins his and together they stroke, driving closer to orgasm. Draco’s nails bite into Harry’s skin, scraping across his shoulder blade. Hot pleasure builds, winding tighter and tighter until Harry’s on the precipice.

“Draco—fuck,” Harry says. “I’m—”

“Do it.” Draco kisses him, breathing harshly through his nose as their hands fly over their erections.

Draco comes first, moaning into the kiss. He tenses and spills over their knuckles, shoulders trembling. Harry mouths over the edge of his jaw and trails wet kisses down his neck.

“Do it,” Draco whispers, squeezing their cocks. “Come on, Harry.”

Draco’s crisp voice wraps around Harry and drags him over the edge. He comes, biting his lip, partially aware of Draco’s soft encouragement talking him through his orgasm as he soothes his fingers over Harry’s back, up his neck and into his hair to draw him in for another kiss.

They collapse into a heap, arms and legs tangled. Before they can catch their breath or cast Cleaning Charms, a sharp tap sounds at the window.

“There’s an owl,” Draco pants, recovering faster than Harry.

Propping up on one elbow, Draco spells them clean, then spells the window open and the owl swoops in, perching on the bedside table. Their brooms are propped against the wall in the corner where Draco’s uniform and equipment is neatly organised and Harry’s resides in a bin. Harry does nothing to cover himself while Draco drapes the duvet across his lap primly. Harry leans forward to collect the letter, earning a nip for his trouble.

“Bugger off,” Harry grumbles, sucking on his finger.

Harry opens the letter and snorts after holding it close to his face to squint, skimming the contents. Draco quirks a brow in question, combing his fingers through his hair to tame it after two rounds of sex.

“What is it?” Draco plucks the letter from where Harry tossed it. After reading it, he frowns and rolls his eyes. “They’re your friends.”

“Oh, I see,” Harry says, leaning against the headboard and hauling Draco closer to kiss his jaw. Draco’s initial protest subsides quickly and he turns into Harry’s affections, brushing Harry’s stubbled jaw with his fingertips. “They’re _our_ friends when we go out on posh dates, but only _my_ friends when they’re poking fun at us.”

“Precisely,” Draco agrees.

The letter flutters back to the bed, a crudely drawn set of award ribbons. One says _Best Pro Flyers in the International League_ and the other reads _Randiest Fuckers in Wizarding London_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please support the author by clicking on the kudos button and leaving a comment below! ♥


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